Alive
by bronzillium
Summary: Even he needs to breath.


**Just a little something I worked on when I was bored a few months back and still in the middle of getting my writing style where I wanted it to be. Enjoy~**

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Sherlock Holmes knows a lot of things. He knows the average amount of time it takes for onions to rot, and the rate of decomposition of a moth's carcass. He can distinguish between 243 different types of tobacco ash, and the individual footfalls of all the people he has ever met. He could accomplish a million things most take years to master in just days, often times less. It's not hard to say that he is an extraordinary man with an equally separate essence of existence.

Sherlock Holmes does not doubt himself. That, too, is easy to identify. He boasts his confidence, over exceeds it, and continues on as if it were common nature to go around making idiots of everyone within earshot.

He takes on no regular burdens when it comes to his self-image. He has no qualms with his own being, save for his scattering accomplishments in one particular area. Dealing with the rawest of human factors.

_Emotions._

He had always struggled with those. Those things that make lovers kill in jealousy and parents tenderly tuck in their children at night. Whether they were his own - as rare as that occurrence was - or those of others. They lent towards the unpredictable, were impeccably tiresome, and he found them entirely unnecessary. Though he would not attest to it, the true reasons for his self-classification as a 'high functioning sociopath' were more basic than his lack of interest in other people or his desire to become distant and isolated from the mundane. He had simply resigned from using the 'gift' humanity bestowed upon him at birth. He had long ago given up attempting to tame these harrowing forces that come from within, and decided his personal exclusion from what made people people needed a proper title.

On rare days, though, he did allow himself to dwell on a vague sensation similar to that of normal human's emotions. In those times he skimmed between cases that set his blood running with adrenaline and experiments which upset his co-inhabitant, Sherlock would take a deep breath and listen.

Just listen.

He would absorb the sounds of Mrs. Hudson bustling about downstairs, knitting or making tea. He would take in the small coughs and sighs of his flat mate as he watched whatever boring shows were on. He would let the tinkling of glass against glass, or ceramic against wood take reign over his senses. He would allow the pitter patter of soft rain or the loud mingling chatter in a restaurant lull him into a subdued restfulness.

These moments didn't last long, only taking up the span of a sharp breath.

Sometimes, less often, he would spare a moment to look. Not observe, analyze, or catalogue every little detail he picked up on. Just glance over at John, the soldier nodding off in his chair with a book in his lap, or updating his retched atrocity of a blog. Maybe take a peek at himself in the mirror and gaze at the tight swoops and curls of his hair, or at the heavy lines that wound deep into a victims aged face. Perhaps do nothing more than enjoy his land lady's sweet smile, or the smooth glide of a skilled hand wielding a scalpel.

These even rarer moments only encompassed the quickness of a blink, the millisecond long kiss between one eyelid and the other.

The time they took was irrelevant to the effect they had on him. A deep soul splitting thrum would jostle his cold heart, once, suddenly, then diminish almost instantly. He would pause for a second, mid action, and make sure no one was looking. Then he would allow himself a tiny smile that went away as fast as the sun hiding behind the clouds on an overcast day, replaced by the angular planes of his usual mask.

Sherlock was out of his depth whenever this happened, yes. He was momentarily stunned, yes. Scared, yes. Terrified that he would find himself overpowered by the one thing he had always fought to eliminate from his life, _yes._

But there was also always something welcoming about these moments. As much as Sherlock feared them, as much as he feared fearing them, the small bit of warmth that crept into him typically won over, much to his distaste. Because this feeling reminded him that everything was okay. That he was human, that he was real, that he was here.

That he was alive_._

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**Hopefully**** it was satisfactory, and perhaps shed a more human light on this enigma of a man.**

**Reviews would be much appreciated.**


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